Serpent’s Tooth. Faye Kellerman

doesn’t mean he deserved to die,” Marge said.

      “Certainly I don’t think so. But his wife may have had other ideas.”

      “So she hired someone to whack him by shooting up a restaurant?” Webster made a face. “How old is she anyway?”

      “Seventy-seven,” Marge answered.

      “Y’all picture a little seventy-seven-year-old lady telling someone to massacre thirteen innocent people just to get to her old man?”

      “Maybe she hired out without knowing what the killers were going to do,” Oliver said.

      Martinez said, “So they decided to execute the hit by attacking an entire restaurant? Pretty clumsy.”

      “Worked in the past for the Mafia,” Oliver said.

      Martinez added, “Then, for a topper, one of them decides to whack the other?”

      “More money for himself,” Oliver said. “Plus someone to pin the blame on.”

      Webster said, “Is Walter’s wife a member of Greenvale?”

      “Yes, of course,” Marge said.

      “Let’s slow it down,” Decker said. “We’re getting wild with our speculations. Any other connection, Marge?”

      “Linda and Ray Garrison. From the people I’ve talked to, it’s clear that the couple was worth beaucoup bucks.”

      “So who inherits the estate?”

      “Don’t know for sure, but they have two adult children, a son and a daughter. David Garrison is twenty-six. And guess what? He has a record. Drug arrests. First time was probation. Second time, he served two years. He’s now out on parole. I’ve got a call in to his officer.”

      “Good going, Dunn,” Webster said.

      “Daughter Jeanine is completely different. Twenty-eight. A patron of the arts and theater and ballet. Very big in society events … raising money for charities. Now get this, guys! She specifically raises charity money with tennis matches.”

      Oliver said, “Didn’t you say that Harlan taught tennis at Greenvale?”

      “Yes, I did.” Decker’s intercom rang. He excused himself, took the call. A rape. Everyone from Sex Crimes was busy in the field. Did he want to send down someone from CAPs? Decker turned to Marge. The woman had been a top-notch Sex Crimes detective for six years. He had almost felt guilty when he pulled her away from the detail to follow him into Homicide. After the call was completed, he looked at Marge. “I need someone with experience, Detective Dunn.”

      Marge checked her watch. “Sure, I can catch it.”

      “Thanks.”

      “Are we done here?”

      “For the most part,” Decker answered. “Just let me get a couple of assignments out. Bert, you remember Walter Skinner as Walter Skinner the actor. Why don’t you go out to his house and feel out the wife?”

      “Feel her up?” Oliver said. “Feel who up?”

      “Out,” Decker said. “Feel her out. What are you doing now, Scotty?”

      “I got a court case in a half hour. Meryl Tobias.”

      Martinez groaned. “Mr. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ What a stupid shit!”

      “At least he was sorry,” Marge said.

      “Don’t help Mrs. Tobias.”

      Decker said, “What’s the DA going for?”

      “Man one.”

      “Cut-and-dried case?”

      “Should be.”

      “So when you’re finished, go over to Ashman/Reynard. Find out what business they were conducting at Estelle’s. While you’re there, check out the other agents, see if any of them had had prior contact with Harlan.” He turned to Webster. “You’re the youngest of the bunch, Tommy. You take on David Garrison.”

      Oliver grinned. “Two young, good-looking white boys mentally duking it out.”

      Marge said, “How do you know David Garrison’s good-looking?”

      “I don’t know that he is,” Oliver said. “He just sounds good-looking. Aristocratic. Like he should have a ‘the third’ after his name.”

      Webster said, “What about Jeanine Garrison, Loo?”

      “You want to take her, Marge?”

      “You mean after I catch the rape call?”

      “That’s right. I’m going senile.” Decker glanced at the clock. “No, catch the call, then meet up with Scotty at Ashman/Reynard. I’ve got an open lunch hour. I’ll take Jeanine myself.”

       11

      The house was small, disappointingly so. Martinez hadn’t been expecting anything ritzy, but at least “Cattle Foreman Kirk Brown” should have been living in something western. A ranch house set on acres replete with tumbleweeds and cacti. Maybe a couple of horse stables. Instead, Walter Skinner, the man, had lived out his last years in a three-bedroom one-story bungalow in an anonymous residential block in the heart of the Valley. A simple house plopped onto a patch of recently fertilized lawn. A lifetime of nostalgia washed away by the stench of manure.

      Badge in hand, Martinez trod up a red-painted cement walkway, hopped the two steps up to the porch. Knocked on the door, and when no one answered, he knocked again. This time he heard someone telling him just a minute. An elderly voice—not feeble, just old. A minute later, she opened the door a crack. Just enough room for Martinez to show her his ID. Then the door opened all the way.

      She must have been under five feet, hunched over, hands resting on a cane. Her face was as round as the moon, lined but not overly wrinkled. Her cheeks had a dash of blush, her lips were painted pink. Her eyes were clear blue; her hair, thick and silver, was tied neatly into a bun. She wore a red turtleneck top over black pants, mules on her feet. Her hands were spotted, the fingers bony and bent. Though she had lived almost eight decades, she still struck a nice pose—all seventy-seven years and about eighty pounds of her.

      One palm remained on the knob of her cane, the other extended itself to Martinez. “Adelaide Skinner. Pleased to meet you, Detective.”

      Martinez took the birdlike hand. “Likewise. Thank you for letting me in.”

      “I was afraid you’d arrest me if I didn’t.” A brief smile. “Come in, come in before you catch a chill.”

      Martinez stepped inside. Adelaide closed the door. “Is this a condolence call from the police? Someone named Strapp already did that.”

      “My captain.”

      “A nice man. Sharp. A good politician.”

      Martinez went inside the house. “Actually, I came to talk to you, Mrs. Skinner.”

      “Me?”

      “If you wouldn’t mind.”

      “No, I don’t mind.”

      She stood for a moment, caught her breath. “Fine. We’ll talk. First let me give you a tour. Which shouldn’t take very long. Because it’s a small house. My idea, not his. If it had been up to Walter, we would have been living on a grand-scale Ponderosa.”

      Martinez smiled to himself. Her admission made him feel better.

      “Not that Walter was the ranch type.”